


Torn Parchment

by midnightprelude



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassination Attempt(s), Fenris saves the day, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26245336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightprelude/pseuds/midnightprelude
Summary: Seeking shelter from a storm, Fenris stumbles across a bookstore and finds more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Fenris/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 12
Kudos: 65
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	Torn Parchment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katling/gifts).



> For the Black Emporium 2020!

##  Fenris

Rain.  _ Kaffas _ , as soon as he thought his day couldn’t get any worse, it had started pouring on his way home from the Hanged Man. Not the cleansing, warm mists he’d felt in Minrathous and Seheron, the ones that reminded him that he was still a living, breathing, thinking being. The storms in Kirkwall made you think the opposite, numbing your fingers and toes and cheeks and nose, making you feel as though you were a walking corpse. 

Perhaps he was, Fenris thought miserably, as he flicked the hood of his jacket over snow white hair, already dripping from the sky’s frigid offerings. A shambling corpse, slipping from bed to his place behind the counter of the dirty, seedy bar, polishing glasses that never seemed to gleam, no matter how long he worked on them with the damp rag he’d slung about his shoulder.

The Lowtown streets were empty; it was long past the time where the drunks would stumble back to their dilapidated homes, reeking of alcohol and desperation, closer to a rising sun than a falling one. 

A loud crack, the sky filled with the peal of lightning, and Fenris pointed his nose to the ground, putting one foot in front of the other as dim light filtered through the fog and the rain. 

A clatter of ice on cobblestones, against roofs, against his head.  _ Hail _ . What sort of dreadful place hailed in the middle of summer? He picked up the pace, nearly running through abandoned alleys, turning a corner and-

Bright, warm, incandescent light was glowing from a storefront just at the end of the block. All the shops he’d seen were long past closed, but this one was as illuminated as a Satinalia tree. A Satinalia tree in a hailstorm. Close. Closer than his Hightown shanty. Fenris furrowed his brow and ran towards the shop, even though it was out of his way, even though he’d no idea if he’d find refuge or just a locked door.

The golden doorknob turned underneath his frozen fingers. A soft click as the latch bolt slipped from the mechanism and the carved mahogany swung open.

The scents of home greeted him as soon as he slid into the door with the light ringing of a bell: kava spiced with anise and cardamom, incense, and red wine. His bones began to thaw as the almost balmy heat of the shop embraced him like a long forgotten friend. Ten years and he’d finally begun to adjust to the climate of Kirkwall. For the first five, he would often spend nights sleeping in his coat, bundled under a thick pile of scrounged blankets. Burrowing, Hawke had said, when she’d first seen his nest. He still felt strange, squatting in his handler’s old house. It didn’t feel like his, even now, after a decade.

Vague memories flashed through his mind, almost reflecting in the puddles splashing under his feet. An experiment. He’d been an experiment. A weapon made flesh. He couldn’t remember a time before the markings had stretched across his skin, curling and glowing. 

His handler, Danarius, held the contract, signed in his own hand. He’d seen it enough times. He was made to be a weapon. A piece of paper that held his life ransom. It had taken him years to get up the courage to burn it, to light it on fire and run. 

Run, and keep running, captured again, but now that he knew the taste of freedom, no chains could keep him bound for long. 

He shook his head, banishing the uncomfortable memories and focusing on the present.

How many times had he walked past the cramped bookstore on his way home from a shift and never even thought to open the door? The walls were covered with overfilled bookshelves, piles of dusty tomes scattered across the floor when the proprietor had run out of room on shelves that extended two stories. A rickety ladder sat in the corner of the shop, covered in dust, as though it was never used. Candles burned happily in a golden chandelier, and a fire was lit in the fireplace, flickering and casting the room in an orange glow so warm that he almost forgot the maelstrom outside. 

Despite the lighting, there was no one else in sight. Just floor to ceiling bookshelves full of books, scrolls, parchment, ink, and quills, a desk heaped and bowed in the center from stacks of papers and heavy scientific instruments. 

A feeling of unease settled suddenly in Fenris’ stomach. He rolled his neck, stretching his fingers, trying to return the flow of blood to his digits. It was far too late and far too quiet for a place to be as bright and cheery as this one. He frowned deeply and stepped further into the shop, navigating carefully around the stacks of books, trying not to drip rainwater on them as he moved through the space. 

There was a spiral staircase, with a trapdoor at the top. He knocked once, twice, but there was no answer. He called out into the space, but his greeting shout was swallowed by the thousands of pages of parchment lining the walls. 

Looking about one final time, he climbed the staircase, lifted the door, and pulled himself through. 

It was a simple loft, also filled with books, and furniture that looked like it had once been expensive. Lived in. Definitely lived in. Another desk, covered with beakers that swirled themselves with an unseen force, clicking timepieces that appeared handcrafted, blinking crystals atop golden half-staves that filled the room with a kaleidoscope of color. 

What  _ was  _ this place?

His nostrils flared as the scent of copper reached his nose, drowning out all other sensation. 

Blood. The floor was covered with blood. Blood and an unmoving man, dressed in an odd assortment of leather straps and buckles. Torn and dyed crimson with blood. Knife wounds, by the look of them. Several. A fight, judging by the blood under his fingernails and the shallower scratches down his arms. 

Fenris knelt beside him, placing a pair of fingers at his temple to feel his pulse. Weak, but present. A rise and fall of his chest. He took out his phone from his pocket, frowning. He took out a slender knife he’d taken to carry through the streets of Lowtown, just in case, sliced off a ribbon of his jacket, and held it tightly to the wound on the man’s stomach, trying to slow the flow of blood.

Those artifacts… He couldn’t call the police, even if that was the obvious decision. The man was almost certainly a mage. Instead, he punched in the number of someone he’d rather not involve.    
A tired voice answered. Fenris spoke a few clipped words into the phone. Directions. An address. A plea.  _ Hurry _ . 

Not more than ten minutes later, Fenris heard the door downstairs burst open and approaching footsteps. A creak as the stairs were taken, two or three at a time, judging from the way they whined. 

Anders’ hands were already glowing, as soon as he threw open the trapdoor, his long hair and cloak dripping from the rain. The man’s wounds began to knit shut under the mage’s care, Fenris scooting away to give his old colleague room to work. Seconds stretched into minutes and minutes into hours as Anders bent over the strange man. Fenris examined him from his place at the wall, not wanting to, but equally unable to keep his eyes away.

Muscular. He was incredibly muscular for someone he was presuming was a mage. Skin that shone like deep amber. The tips of a curled mustache, now in disarray. Fenris frowned as he watched the healer work in an unusual silence, brow knotted as the crackle of ozone and the scent of elfroot filled the room. 

Fenris stood slowly, pacing around the room, shifting from one foot to another. Books were scattered about the room, pages torn from some of them, clothing pulled from a wardrobe and discarded onto the floor, a chest of drawers ransacked. 

A robbery? But if the man was a mage, why hadn’t he stopped his attacker? Why would he be sprawled out on the floor, bleeding, when he could’ve almost certainly protected himself?

Copper mingled with ozone, cinnamon, cardamom, and anise as the healer worked. Fenris peered out the window, a grim silence, listening to the rain and hailstones pound on the roofs of Lowtown.

A soft clearing of a throat from behind him.

“It’s done,” Anders said quietly. “Who is this guy?”

“You know as much as I,” he replied simply. “I was looking for a place to wait out the storm before trudging back to Hightown. A spur of the moment decision.”

“Well, it seems you’ve been guided by the Maker’s hand,” the healer said, tilting his head to the side. “I’ve stopped the bleeding, started the regeneration process. His body will have to take over from here. He’ll be alright. Whoever he is. He’ll need someone to watch over him, though, until he gets his strength back.”

“I’ll leave the two of you to it, then.” Fenris crossed the room, stepping carefully over the fallen tomes towards the trap door. 

“No, no. Your find; your problem. I’ve got patients waiting for me in the clinic.” Anders chuckled lightly, wiping his hands off on his cloak. “The downside to being a good samaritan. Stay with the guy tonight and give me a call around noon, will you? Or if anything seems amiss. I cast a magical sleep on him; he should rest for the next eight hours or so, but if not, give me a ring.”

“Anders-”

“‘Night!” the healer said cheerily, pulling open the trapdoor and stepping down. “Call me if anything strange happens!”

With a slam of the door, he was gone, and Fenris was alone in a bookshop with an unconscious man. He hefted him over his shoulder and walked towards the bed, easing him down on the floor nearby. Kohl-lined eyes, smudged. His robes were still covered with blood, much of it likely belonging to someone else, Fenris realized. He wouldn’t likely get many thanks for staining the fellow’s bedsheets, so Fenris propped him up against the wall and tried to figure out that monstrosity of an outfit. Why was he covered from head to toe in buckles and belts and straps, most of them seemingly having no purpose at all? It took him about half an hour to pull the bloody robes off of his chest and set them aside before pulling the man into the bed. 

The slimmest shadows of where his wounds had been: four knife wounds to the chest, three shallow, one deeper on his side. Scratches that were nearly invisible along his arms, where the knife had slashed him. Deep wounds on his hands. A purpling bruise on his forehead. Perhaps not unconscious from loss of blood, then. If Anders had thought he was in critical condition, he wouldn’t have tasked Fenris with keeping watch over him. 

He shivered in his drenched clothing, dripping on the finely woven rug that decorated the floor. If he wasn’t to wake until the next morning, Fenris supposed there was no trouble in taking off his own sodden garments. He unzipped his cotton hooded jacket, setting it over a chair near the fireplace to dry. He kicked off the torn sneakers he’d taken to wearing. The band shirt he’d picked up from Hawke ages ago went with them, as did his skinny black jeans.

Fenris shook his head. Stuck in his underwear in a bookshop with an unconscious stranger who’d gotten into some sort of trouble. Not the way he’d expected the evening to go. Though, with as much time as he’d spent with Hawke, he’d learned to expect pretty much anything could happen in Kirkwall. Most of it bad. 

Some things, though… Standing over Danarius’ body as he slumped to the ground. Free.  _ Free _ . Did he ever know the meaning of that word? He couldn’t remember anything from before the markings. Perhaps he’d known once and had forgotten. But thus far, freedom had largely been making ends meet working for Corff at the Hanged Man. Chatting with Hawke and Varric until the former had left to travel the world with Isabela and Varric had become Viscount. Anders had his clinic. Merrill had her school. 

And he had… His freedom. He had that. No one would ever take it away from him again. 

Fenris looked around the room, shivering again. He knelt at the fireplace until it roared to life, slowly warming the bedroom above the bookshop. Took a blanket from the massive pile at the foot of the man’s bed, wrapping it around his shoulders. He almost laughed at the size of it. Another person who could hardly stand the southern chill. Fenris tucked a few of those thick comforters around the stranger’s shoulders before making his way back downstairs. 

He slipped a book on Marcher military history under his arm, snuffed the candles, one by one, and locked the front door. Allowed the fireplace to die out on its own. His markings glowed slightly in the dim light, helping him find his way back to the spiral staircase and silently up the stairs, slipping up through the trap door.

The man was largely unmoving, asleep or unconscious, on the bed. The bedroom had warmed considerably. He wasn’t from Kirkwall; that much was certain, by the style of his dress, the kohl ringing his eyes, the scents filling the lower rooms, and the thick stack of books written in Tevene close to his desk. 

Sleeping soundly, his chest rising and falling. Anders had said to stay here until the afternoon, to keep watch, make sure nothing terrible happened. His next shift didn’t start until tomorrow evening and the storm showed no sign of letting up. At least his companion wouldn’t bother him. He could read in peace, dry, and warm.

Fenris settled into a high-backed armchair and cracked open the book, crossing his legs and bringing them up to rest his chin upon them, and throwing the blanket around his shoulders. It wasn’t long before his eyes began to grow heavy, the paragraphs blurring together as his head nodded in an effort to stay awake.

##  Dorian

As soon as he opened his eyes, he had the distinct wish to shut them again. His head pounded as though he’d drunk an entire bottle of Rivaini spirit wine by himself, quickly followed by some of that nasty qunari swill that the Iron Bull had gifted him for Satanalia last year. Dreadful. Absolutely horrendous. 

But he was awake. That was good. Awake and alive-

What had happened?

His eyes scanned the bedroom for clues, first stumbling on the pool of bloodstains on the floor. And shortly after, when he raised his gaze, the man sleeping in his armchair, feet tucked up under his chin as though he meant to make himself as small as possible. A naked arm snaked over the armchair, drooping down towards the wooden floor. A book rested in his lap. Bright, clean markings covered the skin that was bared, swirling across his arm and chest in the spots where the blanket had slipped down.

It wasn’t the first time Dorian had woken up with a man he didn’t recall meeting. Far from it. They usually weren’t in his own chambers though, or sitting in an armchair with a book on… The Kirkwall rebellion of 8:05 Blessed? By Gottfred? A dry read, to be certain. No wonder the poor fellow had fallen asleep, curled up around himself like a cat in the sunshine.

And the sun  _ was  _ shining. Void and Deep, how long had he slept? He glanced down at the timepiece on his wrist that he’d put together himself, merrily ticking away. Almost noon. Almost noon and he hadn’t even begun preparing for the day. 

He tried to vault from the bed, but a searing pain in his middle left him doubled over in pain. There was a sharp cry that, once the waves of nausea had resided, he recognized as his own. Eyes watering, he groaned, glancing up at the no longer sleeping man, who’d managed to cross the room in the fraction of a second, silently, while he’d been otherwise occupied.

“Stop moving,” the elven man with the thin lines of tattoos rumbled in a deep voice that seemed almost incongruous with his slight, lithe figure. Now that the blanket had been discarded, he was wearing nothing but a thin pair of briefs. Beautiful, every line of him, from his shocking white hair to the muscles of his calves. The tattoos only stood to accentuate his figure, mesmerizing, almost glowing in the warm light streaming in from the windows.

“Have,” Dorian gasped, blinking his eyes closed. “Not moving.  _ Kaffas _ .”

Without looking, he could feel the air in the room shift. 

“You’re Tevinter,” the other man said quietly. Not a question. “I thought as much.”

“What gave me away?” 

“A Tevinter  _ mage _ ,” the elf frowned, Dorian saw, when he opened his eyes again. 

“Good morning to you, too,” Dorian grumbled, tracing the lines where the pain radiated from along his side. “Do you make a habit of sleeping in strangers’ homes, nearly naked, and telling them of their country of origin when they awake? A strange choice of hobby, my friend.”

“Friend,” the stranger said, watching him with wide green eyes. “You make friends too easily, then.”

“I’ve been told as much, many times before.” Dorian tilted his head slightly to the side, readjusting the curl of his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Care to tell me  _ why  _ you’re in my bedroom?”

“By accident.”

“And your continued presence?”

“Ending shortly, now that you’re up.”

“Right,” Dorian frowned. “Perhaps we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, so to speak. My name is-”

A ring, coming from a black jacket draped over a chair near his fireplace. The man rushed to pick it up, lifting the device to his ear. He spoke in a clipped tone, presumably talking about Dorian, telling the caller he was awake and he’d be leaving shortly. 

A frown drew the man’s brows together even more. A scowl, replaced by a sigh. He hung up the phone and set it aside.

“I take it you didn’t fancy what you heard?” Dorian raised a brow.

“No. Not particularly.” He took a seat back in the armchair again, drawing his legs up to his chin and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. “Fenris.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My  _ name _ . My name is Fenris. I found you on the floor last night, when I was looking for somewhere to get out of the rain. That was the man who healed you. He said your wounds will take several weeks to fully recover.” He sighed deeply, picking up his book again. “I didn’t stay here all night just to leave you hobbled for whoever tried to kill you to finish the job.”

“Oh.” Dorian massaged his temples as the memory of the night before came flooding back. He ran bejeweled fingers across his abdomen again, frowning. 

What was the man’s name again? It didn’t matter overmuch, he supposed; it was almost certainly a fake. A pretty face, slipping into his shop a few minutes before closing. Said he’d seen Dorian around before and had been working up the nerve to ask him out for a drink.

Flattery. Bloody flattery. Always falling for the Blighted, thrice-damned flattery. This time it got him tossed on the floor, knife in his belly, and for what?

What had the bastard said before he-

The  _ amulet _ . Of course it was. Not that he just kept the thing lying about. His attacker must’ve been terribly disappointed. He twisted a ring on his finger and opened a pocket in space, checking to make sure the prototype of the temporal amulet was still in place, along with his calculations and schematics. 

Fenris stared. “A mage.”

“Clearly,” Dorian agreed, giving the pocket dimension a quick inspection. Nothing amiss. “Dr. Dorian Pavus, at your service. Professor of-” He sighed, frowning at the other man. “I  _ was  _ a Professor of the Thaumaturgical Department at the University of Minrathous. Now I’ve got a bookshop. Less paperwork, if you can believe it.”

“From Tevinter.”

“ _ Yes _ , yes, have we not been over this? I could’ve sworn we’d already had this realization.” Dorian rolled his eyes and tried to sit up, wincing as his skin tightened and- He was back staring at the ceiling again. “ _ Kaffas _ .”

“I have been told that I shouldn’t leave you alone,” Fenris grumbled, over the edge of his book. “That demonstration seems to prove the point.”

“I’m perfectly capable of-” Dorian swung a leg over the side of the bed, gasping at the burning sensation in his side, biting his lip to avoid crying out. He stood, slowly, gripping the bedpost until his knuckles turned white. A step towards the trapdoor. A second. A third. His entire side felt raw, felt the trickle of blood down his skin. Dorian looked at the floor. 

“And you’ve split your wounds open again.” Fenris sighed, setting the history on a side table and rising again, his blanket falling to the floor in a puddle around him, apparently unconcerned with his near nakedness. He approached, scooping Dorian up into his arms and depositing him back on the bed. “If I’m to watch over you, then I’d like it to be for as little time as possible. You injuring yourself to prove a point is not furthering that goal.”

Slender, deft fingers yanked one of the sheets off the bed and began cutting it into strips with a knife he’d left by the fire. Fenris wrapped the cloth around him tightly, binding his injury, tying the destroyed fabric around Dorian’s shoulder to keep it in place. He felt a warmth whenever the elf’s skin brushed his own, which he hoped the other man would mistake for discomfort.

“Noted,” Dorian said quietly. “Thank you. You may well have saved my life.”

“Probably,” Fenris didn’t meet his eyes, focusing on adjusting the makeshift bandages. 

“You’re from Tevinter, too?” 

“I lived there for some time. ‘From’ is a word I’m not sure I’d use to describe my relationship to that cesspool.” Emerald eyes watching him carefully, considering. “I’m glad to be away from it.”

“As am I,” Dorian murmured, just barely over a breath.

“I find that hard to believe.”

Dorian tilted his chin up to peer at the man. “Why is that, pray tell?”

“A Tevinter mage. A  _ University _ Tevinter mage. What business would you have leaving?” Fenris looked entirely uncertain as to whether he should be regretting picking Dorian up off the floor.

“If I stayed, my life would never be my own.” He leaned back, easing down onto the pillows with a grunt. “I found that condition untenable.”

A hum. Almost… Pleased? Strange coming from that discerning face. “I see.”

Fenris moved away, slipping the black jacket on over his shoulders before settling back into the armchair.

“You know, I’ve more interesting books,” Dorian called out, already feeling antsy. “An entire shop full of them. In our mother tongue, too! All sorts of histories, stories, fables, romances, anything you can imagine.”

A long beat from the other side of the room. The clearing of his throat. “I never learned to read Tevene.”

Dorian’s eyes widened. “ _ What _ ? You never-”

“Or if I did, I can’t remember.”

“What do you mean, you can’t-”

He lifted up his arm, pointing to the markings. “You’re not the only one whose life wasn’t their own in Tevinter.”

“I-” Dorian shook his head, trying not to stare. “I don’t know what they did to you there-”

“Nor will you,” Fenris replied simply. 

“But-”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I owe you  _ something _ for saving my life.”

“You do not.”

“I  _ do _ . Let me-”

“I don’t need a reward for doing what should have been done.” Fenris cracked open his book again, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his knee. 

“I’ll teach you. To read Tevene.” The words spilled out from Dorian’s mouth like a torrent. “If you’ll be here anyway, let me do that much. Or Orlesian. Or Antivan. Whatever you want. You’re welcome to borrow anything I’ve got downstairs, whenever you like. Books are meant to be read. To be shared. Let me-”

That slender, tattooed chin raised slightly, as did Fenris’ eyes. A slight, nearly imperceptible smile curved the corner of those immaculate lips. “If you must repay me, that is one manner in which I could accept.”

“Excellent,” Dorian said quietly. “Downstairs, third shelf on the right from the staircase, I have some simpler texts. We can start with those. The alphabet is different, but if you can read Common, you’ll be picking up dull histories in Tevene too in no time.” He frowned slightly. “I’d get them for you, but…”

Fenris stood, slipping towards the trap door. “You won’t.”

“No, I won’t. Don’t want you to stick around any longer than strictly necessary, after all.”

Dorian was almost certain he heard a deep, resonant chuckle as the trapdoor closed behind the elf and he was left alone in his bedroom, already hoping for his companion’s quick return.

##  Fenris

Warm. Dorian was  _ warm _ , his house was warm, his smell was warm, his eyes were warm, his embrace was- 

Fenris shook his head, trying to remember what paragraph he was on and rid his nose of the sweet smell of cinnamon and anise that leaked from Dorian’s skin, even as he slept. A month, he’d spent, lying in Dorian’s bed as his knife wounds slowly healed. Learning to read in the language of the country they’d both abandoned, for reasons of their own. The mage was patient and seemed to enjoy teaching, and companionship even more than that. 

Dorian had said nothing when Fenris continued to drop by his storefront, even after his skin was unblemished and flawless again. Picking up books. Dropping them off again. Browsing idly. Coming up with excuses, he realized, as did Dorian, eventually, when he asked Fenris to stay the night. 

He had no need for him to, but Dorian had asked anyway. And Fenris, surprising even himself, had accepted the offer. 

Fenris watched him sleep in silence, smiling slightly. Dorian’s eyes were closed, kohl-lined and relaxed. Peaceful. The first few days after the attack, he hadn’t slept at all, from what Fenris could tell. But after Dorian told him he needn’t sleep in that chair…

And they’d both slept better for it.

Watching him, he had hated to admit it to himself, but Dorian was beautiful. Beautiful and generous. The opposite of the way his handler had been in every way. The opposite of the other mages he’d met in Tevinter before he’d fled. 

They hadn’t seen a repeat of the attack, but Fenris was wary, every time he left for the Hanged Man. He checked and double checked the door, the windows, the rooftops, before scurrying off for his shift. 

An amulet he’d developed, apparently. A dangerous little bit of magic he’d kept locked away after he realized what his theory could be used to do. And his former colleagues kept hiring men to try and take it from him. His own father sent people to try and drag him back. 

But he was here, now, sleeping soundly, eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly with each breath. Warm and sweet and safe. Alive. 

Unexpected and strange and so, so very welcome. 

Fenris sighed, blowing out the candle on the nightstand, closed the book on early Marcher history, set it aside, and curled up in the circle of Dorian’s arms. A deep sigh warmed him to his toes as Dorian tugged him closer in his sleep. 

Hawke had their ship and their pirate queen. Varric had his city. Merrill her school and Anders his clinic. And he... He had this. Whatever it was. Whatever it would be. Warm arms and words he never thought he'd be able to decipher. 

Freedom. Freedom to go. Freedom to stay. And that was more than he had ever hoped for.


End file.
